


Just a kid, I am

by rose_bud



Category: Castle Rock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, just a little something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-28 10:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15705168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_bud/pseuds/rose_bud
Summary: And perhaps the boy took that realization as a cue, despite it not being his own. Eyes glossy, he looked to his lawyer — chin down, eyes yielding a certain curiosity as if to say,what's on your mind?





	Just a kid, I am

"Here." 

A paper bag, etched with oil and fat, crunched atop the boy's lap. Slender fingers uncoiled in a slow fashion, and he very timidly peered inside. 

"It's a burger," Henry informed, "And a damn good burger too. So, if I see you just picking at the bun..." 

A playful chuckle was offered with a smile, but it wasn't returned. If anything, the genuine act caused the kid to retreat, eyes darting away as if he didn't feel that he was deserving of Deaver's presence.

Henry reset himself with a sigh. 

"I'll uh, keep this wrapped for you. You can save it for later."

Tired, olive eyes watched the scenery pass. Trees and craftsman houses passed in a blur, and the wet asphalt mirrored the sad sky. Yet, how memorizing was the sky, the fog and coal colored canvas that had been set ablaze by the nearby flames. It almost felt like there was a sun behind those clouds.

But he wasn't one to be picky about the weather. 

"Try this," Henry announced casually. 

The boy had just looked over his shoulder when he was spooked. He lifted his shoulders defensively when the window rolled down, though only by an inch or two. Before Henry could properly apologize, the boy regained his composure with a certain haste that clarified that he was more intrigued than alarmed.

Henry eyed his client's response before the corner of his mouth pulled up into a grin. 

"Want me to roll it down more?" 

Once again, the boy glanced back at Henry. His nod was a slow, choppy movement, but Henry was happy to oblige.

The boy tucked his lips inward as he touched the window, letting the cold glass slither down the pad of his pointer finger—

Quickly, he shut his eyes as the feeling and sound of the outside breeze overwhelmed him. So much, in fact, that he leaned back into the passenger's seat for a moment. Henry smiled, knowing that the boy's ignorant senses were relearning the basics: touch, sight, sound, taste — an experience that, in a way, he felt honored to be present for.

The boy let the cold pinch at his cheeks and the tip of his nose; both had taken on a rosy hue, as he watched every street light and mailbox go by. 

Slowly, he lifted his right hand and held it outside of the window. He opened his hand, revealed his palm, and fluttered his fingers. Lost in a trance, he watched himself. 

Open, fist, open, fist — like he wasn't the one responsible.

Henry, unknowingly, had started doing the same thing, his wrist draped over the steering wheel. 

Open, fist, open, fist.

"Hmph," Henry chuckled to himself. 

And perhaps the boy took that realization as a cue, despite it not being his own. Eyes glossy, he looked to his lawyer — chin down, eyes yielding a certain curiosity as if to say, _what's on your mind?_

"It's funny. I told myself I'd never come back here," Henry confessed. "I'm sure you know by now, or have always known..." He looked to the boy, who diverted his gaze. "Or maybe you don't, in which I'm grateful, I guess." 

Aside from the open window, things grew silent. 

Henry sighed, seemingly frustrated at no one but himself. 

"I don't have the best reputation in this town. The moment I stepped off that bus, I could feel the stares; the hate, everyone wondering what the hell I must be up to."

Henry could feel those dark, swollen eyes on him, so he pressed on. 

"I could write on a calendar what days my mother remembers who I am, down to the exact time. Sometimes, I walk into the house and I'm nobody but an intruder. You know," and he dared to look at the boy directly in the eyes, "I can actually see the gears grinding behind her eyes; the cogs spinning as she tries to remember who I am." He then scoffed. "Henry-fuckin'-Deaver. That's who I am."

Yet, in that moment, he sounded like he'd rather be _anyone_ else.

The boy tilted his head as he shifted away, shoulders tense and upright, and Henry rose a brow in his direction. 

"Do you know what that feels like? Like, a failing at redemption kind of thing, I mean."

And when he didn't get an answer, he looked the boy's way. 

He was seemingly in his own world; a paradise that Henry wished he could see. There was slight envy: the boy could find his own escape through an imagination so thoroughly conditioned that he was able to survive that steel rectangle he called a home. Or maybe, just maybe, the first star of the night caught his eye. 

Henry could see it, too.

But before Henry could point it out, perhaps change the entire vibe of the conversation, Henry heard the boy speak.

"All is forgiven through Him."

Those words were spoken flatly, a low grumble as if the boy hadn't bothered to part his lips to speak at all. 

The frazzled lawyer quickly remembered his religion; his faith, his father; his prayers. He remembered what he did for a living; why he was here. He thought about Texas. And in that moment, all he could do was laugh. 

"Yeah, I suppose _His_ forgiveness is what _truly_ matters, right?"

But why did it come out in such a condescending manner? 

Under narrowed brows, the boy glanced at Henry and turned away. 

Henry hoped he hadn't offended him, and this surely wasn't the moment to have sudden realizations, but maybe there was a certain frustration that lingered in his question's wake. That, maybe, true faith didn't work the way Henry wanted, and that drove him insane. To just pray, wonder, and hope those prayers were heard. There was never a date, a receipt saying that the request (or prayer) was pending; it was just _have faith,_ Henry. 

Maybe he didn't believe as he should, and maybe that was the problem years ago.

Doubt. 

"Anyway, let's just worry about why I came here in the first place. The sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner I can get out of here," Henry almost joked. "I hope you like the taste of freedom."

But truly, the boy had never felt more free. With his elbow propped up on the window sill, his chin on his palm, he watched the brightest star in the sky. Unlike every mailbox and street light, it followed them, and it brought a comfort that he couldn't explain even if he knew how.


End file.
